Accidents Make the Best Miracles
by sofiaibat
Summary: After the death of Mary, both John and Sherlock feel broken, but after they meet their eldest brother, Sherringford, they meet someone else who changes that: Mycroft's teenage daughter, Myra. At first Mycroft unwilling to raise her, but as threats grow, he changes his mind, and everyone finds themselves changing their minds about what they think, and Myra discovers she's not alone.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER I:**

Sherlock and John were sitting in their respective armchairs, looking at each other, not saying anything. John's eyes were still red from crying, and Sherlock just looked upset and confused as he stared back at John. They were still in their suits, even though the funeral had ended over an hour ago. John had cried as his wife's body was put deep underground, and Sherlock had stood quietly next to him, watching as Annabelle Grantham Rochelle Arkhipova, aka Mary Watson, was placed into the earth. The entire time he had held onto the baby Watson, who had accidently infected her own mother with the disease that killed her.

Rose, as she had been named, was asleep in Sherlock's arms and as the once-again flat mates watched each other, he noticed that John was refusing to look at Baby Watson. Probably because the child was a spitting image of her mother, only sharing her nose with her father. The baby fussed and squirmed, and Sherlock crossed the room to put her in the crib that Mrs. Hudson had set up. She grew quiet and the detective watched the baby for a few moments before sitting back down. To his surprise, John had gone up to his room while he had been doing that and he was alone. He looked to his right. _The Violin_. Then to his left. _The cigarettes._ He shook his head and ran to his own room, closing the door and throwing himself onto the bed, and into an uneasy sleep.

The next few weeks were a blur. Sherlock made John a cup of tea and some toast with marmalade, set it out on the kitchen table, and went out with Baby Watson. Sometimes he'd leave her with Mrs. Hudson to solve a case, and other time he'd take her out to the town, and sit, watching her. Women would always coo at him and the baby, but after a large amount of deduction, they left him to think. He had already stored 128 of the baby's faces in his mind palace, along with what each face meant. He had also done the same with her 47 gestures and 58 cries. He had stored everything that made her laugh, and everything that made her cry. He had memorized each song on his violin that she enjoyed; along with the way she liked her formula. He had just gone out for a walk with her and when he opened the door, he found Mycroft sitting in his chair, looking grim and vaguely annoyed.

Sherlock wanted to throw stuff at his elder brother, but he didn't want to disturb Baby Watson, so he put her in her crib and went to the two armchairs, noting that John was sitting in the other, quiet as ever. He glared at his brother, and finally broke the awkward and pensive silence.

"What are you doing here, _brother dear_?" He snarled, his words dripping with sarcasm and anger.

"Oh brother mine, don't think I wanted to come. Our brother Sherringford is _gracing us with his presence. _You wouldn't know him. He went to college before you were born, and left."

Both John and Sherlock looked surprised at this, and nearly exchanged glances, but John went back to a passive face and looked down. Before the detective could ask why it had to be here, his mind had already begun to race and he started observing Mycroft. _Furrowed brow… knows Sherringford... Fidgeting feet and hands… nervous about something… Personal? Government related?_

The doorbell interrupted his thoughts and there was the sound of footsteps up the stairs, but there were more than the eldest Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. The door opened and into the room stepped a man, who even with his graying hair and balding head, looked a lot like Mycroft and Sherlock. Before introductions could begin, a teenage girl stepped up, with cold blue eyes scanning over the room. This new entrance startled all three people in the room. Behind her pair of wire-rimmed glasses she had eyes exactly like Sherlock's, and bore a close resemblance to Sherringford, and the detective had started to suspect that she was his daughter before he saw the whole picture. Except for her blue eyes, her dark wavy hair and tanned skin, she was the spitting image of Mycroft. The eldest Holmes clapped his hands together and drew the attention away from the girl.

"Hello Mycroft. You must be Sherlock and John Watson, I assume. As I am sure you are aware, my name is Sherringford Holmes."

"How do you know me?" John's voice croaked through the room. Sherlock gave a start at how shredded it sounded, and knew that he didn't like it at all.

"Ah, I've seen you from the papers. 'Hatman and Robin', so you've been called." Sherringford responded, cheerily. This man seemed to be less like him and Mycroft and more like their parents.

The unnamed girl stepped forward a bit, and started trying to deduce her, but the only thing that he could gather was a sense of anger and anxiety, judging from the fact that her hands were tucked into her pockets. The lack of information bothered him, but he pushed past it, as his newest brother was beginning to speak.

"Of course, Mycroft, you remember her, obviously, but we have yet to introduce her to you guys. This is **–**"

"Myra Holmes." The girl's voice cut in with steely precision. There was a slight edge to her voice, but is sounded smooth. If Sherlock could compare it to anything, he'd probably say cream, or butter. Poisoned cream. However, that wasn't what got his attention at all. She had said _Holmes_. They were related. _Of course, Mycroft, you remember her, obviously._ That meant that… Ah yes, John had figured it out too. He looked wide-eyed at Mycroft, who cleared his throat and stood up.

"Erm, yes. This is my daughter, Myra."


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER II**

Myra observed as each of the respective members of the flat reacted to her 'father's' words. The curly haired detective's (Sherlock) eyes flickered back and forth, his mouth opened in a small 'o'. The one with the blonde hair (John) was frowning, his eyes moving much faster. That man was the first to speak.

"I don't understand." His voice was still hoarse, and it made her flinch a bit. She just looked at him, and he held her gaze for a while, before looking away.

_Held gaze… Patient… Looked away… Emotionally compromised… Blank eyes…loss…child…widower._

Her deductions paused as Mycroft began to speak, answering John's question. She put her earbuds in and continued deducing, filing every note she made into her Mind Palace, with Linkin Park playing through the corridors. She was sitting in a chair, a large comfy red one, in front of a typewriter, and folders. She was typing out: John Watson—Widower, one child, judging by size of crib. Girl, judging by color. Still in mourning, funeral was today. Patient, works with people. Social security? Lawyer? DOCTOR.

Mycroft's voice was flowing through the rooms of her mind palace and played around her ears.

"It was well over a dozen years ago. I was at a conference in, well, somewhere, and I met a women. She was fairly charming, and we got to talking over drinks. Eventually it moved farther, and we parted ways. She came to me, months later, and revealed that she was pregnant. She stayed with me, until it was time to go to the hospital. She died in childbirth, and I gave our daughter to Sherringford to take care of. I had asked to meet her after fifteen years, but I hadn't really thought much of it until I received a text that it was to be today."

She went back to her typing, describing John's strange looking jumper as well as the way he sat, marking an old injury and a possible history in the military. Her name was called and it cut off her music, and suddenly she was pulled from her Record Room, back to reality.

She blinked several times and looked around, Sherringford giving her a disapproving glare. She met his gaze, but Mycroft cleared his throat, and her eyes flicked back to him.

"I said: where are your things?" He said, sounding irritable. She rolled her eyes at him, because it seemed as though he knew fairly well where they were.

"I dropped them off at the estate. Your assistant, Anthea, took them to the guest room. It's pretty dull right now, but since I am to live with you from now on, I will be decorating it to fit my tastes. I also claimed the washroom next to it." She responded in her same clipped tone.

His face instantly changed from neutrality to a face that perfectly symbolized the acronym: WTF. He looked at his daughter, then to his elder brother, then to his younger brother then back to Myra.

"Excuse me? Living with me?" He said, incredulously. Sherringford grinned, and Myra allowed herself to exchange a smile with him.

"Quite so. Myra's mother wrote in her will that once Myra meets her father, he will be in charge of her. Apparently Ura knew you pretty well, considering she anticipated you to give her up in case she died, as well as hiding it from you."

Mycroft just huffed annoyingly and stomped out of the room. Sherringford gave a look to the two others, and John got up, and followed. Myra was taken aback; why didn't he grab his baby? Instead her curly haired uncle fetched the child, and he followed the two men, and she and her other uncle came last.

The car ride was awkward, to say the least, with John refusing to look at the baby (Rose, at she had been called), Mycroft and Sherlock both on their phones, and Sherringford's constant attempts to make conversation. Myra spent most of the ride in her Record Room, filing everything she could about each person into manila envelopes and storing them in the Misc. drawer. She had lots of drawers. Classmates, teachers, friends (empty), enemies (six bullies), and family (Sherringford). She hadn't put the others into a specific folder, because she couldn't predict who would care for her.

When they arrived, they met Anthea outside of the estate, and after she exchanged a few sharp words with her boss, she came over to Myra, and they started talking, exchanging their Tumblr URLs, Facebook profiles, and Anthea began showing her multiple apps. They came to the room, where there were about a dozen pieces of furniture, and a few suitcases. Mycroft sighed and shrugged, and they headed into the sitting room. She sat across from John, who buried his head into a book. Anthea took the child into another random sitting room, and the three Holmes brothers went into the hallway outside. She tried playing games on her phone, but she couldn't help but listen to the voices in the hallway.

"Now Sherlock…" Sherringford.

"Don't even. I literally just met you. What I'm more concerned about, is this newer addition. What the _hell_, Mycroft?!" Sherlock.

"Brother, I –" Mycroft.

"No, you know what? You get all annoyed over everything I do, and then we find out that you have a daughter? What do you have to say for yourself?" Sherlock sounded strict, and not unlike the nannies that used to watch over her. There was a long pause in which no one said anything, and there was the subtle sound of Sherringford's incessant humming.

"Well?"

"I MADE A MISTAKE! Alright Sherlock, happy now? I made a goddamn mistake. A human error."

The rest of the conversation was drowned out by the thoughts that had started plaguing her mind. Had he just called her a mistake? She had been called many things: freak, psycho, even a bitch, but never had the word mistake been used. And somehow, it hurt even more than all of the words, combined. She felt John's eyes on her, and she realized that her own eyes were tearing up. She blinked rapidly and she found her gaze meeting the army doctor's. He looked sympathetic behind his gaunt features, and she found herself unable to cope with his look. She got up, and stormed out of the room, shoving past the Holmes brothers, and heading to her new room.

She was almost there, when she went past the room where Anthea and the baby were. She went in there, and looked at Youngling Rose (as she had started calling the baby girl). To be honest, the youngling was quite cute, with its pudgy little face and wispy strands of blonde hair. She went over and looked at her for a little while, and turned to Anthea.

"I got this, why don't you go get yourself some food or something?" She smiled almost gratefully at her, and left the room, after handing Youngling Rose over to the teenager.

Myra smiled at the little girl, the girl who wasn't a mistake. She chuckled mirthlessly. What a load of self-pitying waste she was. Her laugh startled the youngling, who squirmed in her arms and turned to look at the new person.

"Hey there." She whispered to the little bundle of human in her arms. The baby responded with incomprehensible babbling. Myra smiled at her, and nodded, pretending to understand everything that was being said. She smiled as the youngling took a fistful of Myra's hair and starting playing with it.

"You like my hair, huh? Well guess what? You're going to have some just like it. Isn't that great? It'll be blonde, 'cause that's how genetics work, but it could be just like mine." The baby cooed and continued playing with her hair, and the older girl tilted her head, allowing Youngling Rosie to have a little more length to play with. Some loose strand tickled the baby's face and she giggled, the little laughter coursing through Myra's body, causing her smile to widen.

She wasn't aware, but John Watson was watching her from the doorframe, and was joined by Sherlock and Mycroft, with Sherringford in the kitchen nearby, talking with Anthea. The three men in the doorway watched in wonder as the closed-off teenager talked to the little girl, giggles continuously flooding the room.

**Hope you guys liked this chapter! I'm sorry if it seems a little boring right now, but it'll pick up soon! Anyway, the next chapter will be focused on John's POV, as he watches the interaction with his daughter and this stranger. Also, I created a playlist of songs in Myra's iPod, so that you guys could get a sense of her personality, behind her closed features, so, take a listen if you like. ( /sofiaibat-645/songs-in-myra-holmes-ipod) Please review so I can see what I could do better, or what I could add to make it more exciting. **


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER III**

John had looked up as soon as he had heard Mycroft say 'mistake'. He had watched Myra's expression go from thoughtful to pain and when she stormed away, he saw Sherlock's face twist in regret, and they all glared at Mycroft. John got up, and moved past his pain to scold the Holmes brothers.

"What the _actual hell_?! You couldn't have had that conversation somewhere else? She heard _everything_. It broke her heart, and even though it may not have sounded like it at the time, you've pretty much said that she was a mistake." John hissed, aware of the fact that Myra was only a few doors down. Mycroft actually looked kind of embarrassed, but he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it.

"You need to apologize. Right now. Go in there and apologize." Sherlock gave a firm nod to his brother, and Sherringford clapped Mycroft on the back and went to the kitchen.

Mycroft sighed. "Oh, alright." They walked over to the door and saw Myra standing around, holding Rose. John looked down a bit, and tried to keep his eyes on the couch. Mycroft and Sherlock moved to go in, but John stopped them. She was whispering something to the baby, and John smiled at the couch.

"You like my hair, huh? Well guess what? You're going to have some just like it. Isn't that great? It'll be blonde, 'cause that's how genetics work, but it could be just like mine." Rose gurgled and made more adorable noises, as Myra continued to talk.

"Alright Youngling Rosie, we're going to learn. Counting, I reckon, since that'll be the most important thing. You use counting in all jobs, writing, baking, even being a doctor, like your father." John paused. How did she figure that out? Then he remembered that she was daughter of Mycroft Holmes. She probably figured it out right away.

"I wouldn't be too worried about him right now. I don't think he wants to interact with you right now. You must look like your mother. I heard someone say her name. It was someone nearby, as we were leaving the flat. They said: 'I'm sorry about Mary.' She must have been your mother. You're not alone though. My mum died when I was born too. Our fathers are very alike. Their scared. I reckon it's because we remind them of our mothers, and I think that's painful."

John blinked, blocking any chance of tears, and he felt kind of ashamed. The sound of Mycroft shifting slightly probably meant that he felt the same. Even Myra cleared her throat and when she started talking again, her voice sounded choked.

"But, eh, back to counting, yeah? One of the nannies used to do this with me when I was younger. She'd count all the people who love me. So, here we go:

One. Your dad. No matter how much he seems to avoid you, he still loves you, because you are his little one.

Two. Sherlock. This may seem different, because he is a Holmes, but he seems to be close with John, and he seems to be the one to care for you right now.

Three. Molly Hooper. I've never actually met her, but I've been here for a little bit, so it wasn't hard to find all of the files. I have a feeling that she'll be like an aunt to you."

A chuckle came from Sherlock at that, and at the same time, Mycroft gave a low sigh.

"Four. Gregory Lestrade. I don't know him either, but he seems nice enough so, I assume he'll take care of you.

Five. Sherringford. He's a scatterbrain, but I reckon he did alright with me, and I doubt he's just going to go off."

"Six. Mycroft. Like I said, he may act like he is above all mere mortals, but I think he has a soft spot. Who knows, maybe it's made of cake, yeah?"

Mycroft shook his head, and Sherlock tried to stifle his laughter, as did John, not wanting to disrupt the scene in front of them.

"Seven. Anthea. She seems to care. I dunno, though. She's a bit of a closed book, but you're too cute to ignore, so I bet she likes you.

Eight. Me. I'm here, aren't I? I'm not sitting in some corner of the house, bored or insulted, right? That's got to count for something, right? I assume I like you, but I don't commonly take a fancy to people. Man, I sound insecure.

Alright, err, nine. You. You better take care of yourself, because it won't ever be enough for just us to take care of you. I know from experience that taking care of yourself is important. That's when you end up in the goth stages, and that gets weird.

Finally, ten. I probably should have said it sooner, but I felt like the other times just weren't right. Your mother, Mary. She loves you, a lot. Don't _ever_ let _anyone_ tell you that she doesn't love you, just because she is gone. When someone is gone, it isn't as though they stop existing.

My, uh, nannies, used to tell me that when someone dies, their soul leaves their body, and leaves it as a way for the world to remember them. The soul, travels up to the sky, and becomes a part of it, see?"

John swallowed deeply and watched as Myra went to the window and moved the curtains. It had gotten surprisingly late, and the night sky was already there, with just a hint of pink at the horizon. Mycroft's daughter started talking, and pointed to the stars.

"See those? Well, people may try to tell you that they are stars, but don't listen to them. Each of those little lights is someone's soul, watching over their loved ones. See that bright one? That is a planet, called Mercury. But it isn't. Because if you replace the E, R, C, and U, and replace it with A, it becomes MARY. And the universe isn't lazy enough to allow coincidences.

The same goes for my mother. The planet Uranus is actually her, because her name is Ura. Sometimes, before I went to sleep, I would sit by the window and tell her all about my day, even though she already know, because even when the sky isn't dark, and you can't see them, they are still watching. Remember that, okay?"

John had expected to hear Sherlock or Mycroft say something about how that was scientifically incorrect, but he didn't hear it. When he turned around, both brothers were looking at the floor, and both looked upset. He heard a little chuckle and he turned to see Myra looking down at his daughter.

"Oh, little youngling, I've bored you. Well, I say we find your father and give you to him. Then we'll all take a rest. My mum is going to be interested with all of these turns of events."

Before any of them could react, she turned around, and frowned at them. Or Mycroft, to be precise. She stepped forward and placed Rose in John's arms, gave a curt nod to the Holmes brothers, and made her way to her new room.

John was surprised by the sudden weight in his arms, and looked down at the baby, getting a full look at her face. She looked exactly like her mother, right down to the color of her short, soft hair. For a moment he was afraid, but, as the baby settled into him, he felt an overwhelming urge to never let her go. Why had he postponed this for so long? This was the only piece of Mary that he still had left, and, now that he was holding her in his arms, he never wanted to let go.

They left shortly after that, and even though the ride back to 221B was silent, it was a comfortable silence, and Myra's words kept repeating through his head. _When someone is gone, it isn't as though they stop existing… The soul, travels up to the sky, and becomes a part of it, see?_

He looked up at the night sky, and Mercury winked at him, not unlike Mary had done countless times. _Oh Mary, why'd you have to leave?_


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER IV:**

Myra entered her room and listened as Sherlock and John left with youngling Rosie. She looked around the barren room and sighed as she started searching through her luggage, trying to find a pair of pajamas. She tossed her sheets onto the bed and heaps of clothes out onto the floor. _I am _not _going to sleep without wearing pajamas._ She strongly disliked sleeping without a pair of pajamas on, because she hated sleeping in her day-time clothes, but she also hated sleeping in very little clothes. The last time she had lost her pajamas, she had actually stayed up all night, watching Doctor Who, so she wouldn't have to endure the other options.

She frantically dug through the pile of clothes and finally she slumped on the wrinkled clothes that she had carefully folded up, resolving to stay awake all night. Suddenly she heard a knock at the door and she looked up. It was Sherringford, looking knowingly at her. He smiled and entered the room and she got up. He held out a small suitcase and she took it, unzipping it, and dumping out its contents. She sighed in relief when she saw her pajamas amongst the mess. Myra looked back at Sherringford, and her eyes knit together when she saw how sad he looked. He noticed her concerned gaze and he gave a short little smile. She looked at him, uncertainly, and he gave a shaky sigh.

"I've been raising you for fifteen years. Feeding you, teaching you, helping you, driving you. And now I have to give you up." He said, sounding rather choked.

"W-well, you don't _have_ to." She said, looking just as sad as him now. He shook his head.

"No, you need to get to know your father, even if it means I won't see you all the time anymore." She sighed and he wrapped an arm around her.

"Hey don't worry about it. Mycroft'll warm up to you eventually, and I'll still visit you whenever I can." She nodded and he gave her a pat on the back, before they both stood up.

"Well, I guess I'll see you around, kiddo." He said, looking down at the ground. Myra started hiccupping with tears and she threw her arms around him. He chuckled and hugged her back, neither of them letting go until she had stopped crying.

They both stood looking at each other, until Sherringford left the room, closing the door softly. She ran to the door and pressed her ears to the wood, listening to her former guardian's fading footsteps. She thought she heard him stop and say something to Mycroft, but she couldn't make it out. Then the footsteps faded away completely, and he was gone. She slumped against the door and started crying again, tears silently streaming down her face. She shook her head violently.

_This is silly. It's not like he died or something, he just won't be raising me anymore. I'll still see him. Pull yourself together Myra!_

She stopped crying, and instead got herself changed into her pajamas, and made her bed. She went to go in, but paused, and looked at the window that was next to her mass pile of clothes. She went up to it, and looked at the stars, even though most of them were smothered with clouds.

"Hi mum," She started. "Well, I'm here now. At my father's estate. He seems a bit prudish, but I think he's just reminded of you. But anyways, I met my uncle. His name is Sherlock, and he shares a flat with this man named John Watson. Mr. Watson has a baby from his dead wife, so I suppose he is a bit like Mycroft. The baby's name is Rose. She's adorable, and I bet you'd love her. But, I'm sad to see Sherringford go. He was sometimes an awful bother, but I miss him terribly." She yawned. "God, I'm so sorry. I'm not usually this tired, but the drive over was _killer._ I'm not sure if I could last a few more minutes."

She looked around the room and sighed. "But I need to unpack. I guess I'll just do it tomorrow. Goodnight mum." She said, turning off the lights and getting into bed. For nearly half an hour, she stared up at the dark ceiling and listened as Mycroft moved about the house, doing hell knows what. The sounds of his footsteps were almost a relief, because even though he was acting like a prick, she wasn't alone. Myra sighed. She was acting like a big dramatic mess. Sighing again, she rolled onto her face and stared at the pillow. The sound of footsteps went past her door and stopped. Freezing, she listened carefully for a sound. She heard a sigh, and then the footsteps continued on.

She missed Sherringford. She had never missed him so much. It was ridiculous. He was still in London. He was still there for her. She was just being raised by a different person. Myra gave a halfhearted chuckle. _Different is one hell of an understatement. _Shaking her head, she decided to plan out her day. That always made her feel better. She slipped into her mind palace and sat down at her typewriter and began to plan it out.

8:00 AM: Wake up, shower, and change.

8:15 AM: Eat breakfast and watch/read news.

9:00 AM – 11:30 AM: Sort through luggage and clean room.

11:45 AM: Find adequate restaurant for lunch.

12:35 PM: Head back to estate and decorate room.

3:00 PM: Take a walk to a park. Read.

4:00 PM: Go to store and buy frozen meals.

4:15 PM: Return home and sit online.

6:00 PM: Dinner.

10:45 PM (OR LATER): Bed.

As she did this, Myra realized how empty her day would be, now that she wasn't running about, making sure that Sherringford's clients were doing fine with their settlements. Maybe that was for the best, though. She would finally have some time to herself, even if that time included cleaning. Rolling over again, she yawned sleepily and finally fell asleep.

**Sorry if this chapter was a bit boring. I just needed to update and I wanted to focus a little more on Myra. The story will pick up eventually, but I want to try and do everything slowly, rather than rush into it. So, again, sorry if this was a boring chapter, but it should pick up in the next one.**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER V:**

Mycroft had showed very little emotion until Sherringford had left to talk to Myra and Sherlock, John, and the child went home. As soon as the car carrying his younger brother had pulled away, he had leaned against the stone wall and sighed heavily. It had been so long since he had seen his daughter. He only saw her after the funeral, and hadn't expected to see her again. But her mother was very smart. He let his mouth curl up a bit. Ura had always been very intelligent. Of course she knew what he would do.

He headed back into the estate and walked down the corridor, overhearing conversation. Peering around the corner, he got a glimpse of Myra's room. She was crying and holding onto Sherringford as though he were a lifeline. Mycroft turned away, and went the opposite direction, feeling the smallest pang of guilt form. This girl had grown up without him, and now she was being pulled away from the man who had cared for her and being pushed into the care of _him_. He shook his head. _Caring is not an advantage_. Practically his trademark phrase. Ironic, that he had first thought it after Ura's death. Quite the full circle moment, now that he was using it with his daughter in mind.

Footsteps echoed down the hall and Sherringford turned the corner. He still looked a bit emotional, but straightened up when he saw Mycroft. His face became stern and he addressed his younger brother.

"Now, Mycroft. I expect you to take very good care of this girl. She deserves the very best, and you clearly have access to the best." He said firmly, as though he was scolding a young child. "I understand that she reminds you of Ura, and that's painful, but you have to take care of her. No pulling any 'Iceman' shit, okay?" He added, his voice only a little bit softer.

The two brothers stared at each other, until Mycroft couldn't help but look away. His shoulders sagged, and his resolve crumbled. He hated feeling this way. After he had lost contact with Myra, it had been fine, but now that she was back, it seemed like everything was falling apart again. Sherringford clapped him on the shoulder.

"It'll be fine, you'll see. Just treat her the way you treated Ura." His elder brother turned around and left. Mycroft walked to the door and watched as the second car that carried a Holmes pulled away from the estate.

When he entered the house again, he went to the kitchen and saw Anthea setting up the kettle. She turned around and looked at him, giving him a smirk. He made an annoyed face in reply and she just laughed, turning back to the kettle.

"I was just making some tea. Want some boss?" She offered. He nodded and she added more water.

Mycroft leaned against the counter and sighed. He was doing a lot of sighing today, and Anthea seemed to notice. She came up to him and offered him a biscuit. It was delicious looking, but Mycroft had a diet to keep up, so he refused. She shrugged and ate it herself, brushing the crumbs off her face.

"Wow boss, I've never seen you so concerned. Don't worry about, though, I'll keep an eye on her, at least until you're ready." She said with a seemingly genuine smile. Mycroft opened and closed his mouth a few times, quite surprised by this.

"Th-Thank you." He said, still surprised. She smirked at him and he gave a short smile. He really needed to give her more days off.

The kettle whistled and Anthea set up the tea, pouring it into two mugs. They drank their tea in silence for a little while, and then Anthea started talking again.

"She's a good kid, you know. She's a bit quiet at first, and she complained when we first pulled up, but she's alright. We talked a bit. Exchanged Tumblr accounts and stuff. She's got a really cool theme." Mycroft stared at her and her jaw dropped.

"Oh man, you don't know what Tumblr is? Oh my god." She chuckled. Mycroft still felt vaguely confused. "Tumblr is this blog thing, where you share photos, and thoughts. I have a feeling you'd like it. I'll send you a few blogs you might enjoy." She said, going on her phone again.

They finished their tea in silence, and when they were done, Anthea bid Mycroft goodbye. He stood quietly for a little while and then poured himself some scotch. He walked towards his study and on the way, he passed Myra's new room. He paused and stood at the door, deep in thought. Raising a hand, he moved to knock at the door. He was barely a few centimeters from hitting the door when he sighed again. _Stop with the sighing. You're acting like a moody teenager._

He moved away as fast as he could, slipping into the simple silence of his study. He placed the glass of scotch next to his laptop. He opened it and checked his email. It was chock full, with emails from world leaders, which he quickly attended to, and one from Anthea. It was a list full of URLs, which he scanned through. They were actually quite intriguing, but then he noticed he had a new email.

It was from an unknown email, and Mycroft activated a few safety procedures on his email. Then he opened it. To say he was shocked would be an overstatement. It was from one of the people he had sent out after Moriarty had sent out that message to the entirety of Great Britain. There were several attached photos, most of which were of a large burly man, but in the background, there was a blurred shot of who could only be James Moriarty. The text above the pictures read that this was in Bolivia, but that didn't matter to him. What drew his attention was that in the last picture, it looked as though the other man was pulling out a gun, staring straight at the camera.

He furrowed his brow and looked up the news in Bolivia, not expecting anything, but it was right on the main page. He felt sick. The headline read: 'Mass Shooting Kills 7 and Wounds 9'. Below this headline, there was a picture of some of the chaos and Mycroft looked at the bodies carefully. His man was one of them.

For a moment, he couldn't understand how the email had come through, but he started visualizing what may have happened. If the picture had been taken right before the shooting, it was possible that his man was wounded and managed to send the email right before the kill shot was delivered. Now Mycroft had a much better idea what was happening. Whoever this man was, he was obviously a threat. He poured himself more scotch. This is going to be a long night.


End file.
